Silence in the Library
by VoodooInTheTARDIS
Summary: Daryl's newest refuge is disrupted by Merle's big mouth. One-shot. Rated T for Dixon-esque language.


Silence in the Library

_Author's Note: This is the result of my brain running on overdrive while walking the dog. Just a plot bunny that wouldn't leave unless it was writ. _

_I like to think that since Daryl isn't so much a social/talking kind of guy, that he'd pour all of his frustrations into creative or productive energy, and that doodling, writing, carving, fixing, etc, would be a very cathartic thing for him. _

_Interestingly enough, I think the idea of Daryl as a woodcarver has become one of those "fan canon" things, much like how the Harry Potter fandom ran with the whole "Remus Lupin: Choco-holic" thing. I do think, however, that one of the first places I ran into the idea was in one of Praxid's fics._

_Also, "forsooth, what the fuck?" is an actual quote from a professor of mine. Its not used in the same context, but all the same its highly entertaining. _

"Mr. Dixon, would you like to share with the rest of the class just what it is that is more interesting then the works of William Shakespeare, which I may add is at least a fourth of your grade?"

Daryl looked up from his notebook, from which he was currently sketching out a skull logo of his own design into the margins. His eyebrows shot up as he raised his gaze to become level with Mrs. Higgins'. He had become so lost in his artwork he had forgotten where he was.

"Well?" she prompted him.

He shifted in his seat, sitting straighter and thinking quickly. "Well Miss, ta be hon'st it'd be easier ta give ya a list of things that _aren't _more interesting."

The classroom tittered with barely repressed giggles. Mrs. Higgins cleared her throat in a disapproving manner, moving to the front of her desk and sitting down on it, leaning towards them. This was unconscious signal she always gave when she was about to leave 'lecture mode' and move into a more proper conversation with her students. In response, her pupils become more alert, most righting themselves in their seats before nudging their friends into a similar state of alertness. The 'classroom conversations', when done right (which was about half the time) were the most excitement they ever got in this school. There had even been times, much to the amusement of the student populace, that good old Mrs. Higgins would get so fired up about her topic that she'd use almost as much profanity as many of their parents were capable of. It could be a great source of interest for the day, but just as often it could be a bit of a letdown, comparatively.

"Alright," she started with a long-suffering sigh. "I know that most of you have a hard time thinking of Shakespeare as anything other than a tool we use to torture you with, but _dig deeper. _Underneath all that ancient language, the "forsooth, what the fucks" lies what used to be the common entertainment of the people! I know, I know, you guys think I'm funny. But listen! Seeing a Shakespeare play was like going to the movies, reading Shakespeare was like reading Michael Crichton!"

"I doubt that." Bobby Jones piped up.

"It was! If you look hard enough you'll find that these windows to another time will show us that people back then weren't so different than people are now!"

As Daryl began to tune Mrs. Higgins out, and resume his work on his doodle, he spared a moment to think bitterly to himself that it should be pretty damn obvious that people didn't ever change.

Finally the bell signaling the end of the day ran out, cutting short the English teacher's tirade before her students could even get in a word otherwise. Looking around at his classmates he could tell they were all more than a little disappointed. In a way he was too, not that he didn't have the chance for more banter with Higgins, but because the end of the day meant having to head home and deal with shit he didn't particularly feel like dealing with. Among the last to go, Daryl gathered up his notebook, sliding the pen's clip over the cover before heaving himself out of his seat and beginning to lumber out the door. He could almost imagine a cartoon version of himself holding a revolver to his head that when squeezed shot out a flag with the word 'bang!' on it as he heard his name being called out. "Daryl? Please stay a moment, will you?" Despite the question mark at the end of the sentence, Daryl knew walking out wasn't an option. Heaving a sigh, he turned on his heel and stomped over to her desk. "Yes, miss?" he mumbled at her.

She held out her hand expectantly. When he hesitated she gestured towards the notebook. "Give it here." He had a brief moment of panic as he handed it over; while he knew that technically they were supposed to hand over the notebooks for the grading of their homework, Mrs. Higgins had never yet asked them to turn them in, instead having them tear out singular sheets to be gathered up. Taking full advantage of this, Daryl had peppered the notebook with many extra-curricular pursuits: namely sketches, doodles, and song lyrics.

It was the last that Mrs. Higgins seemed to linger over the most as she flipped through the book. Daryl could swear the damn woman was actually _reading _them as she went. Finally, after what felt like an eternity she handed the book back to him, fixing him with a level look. "You know, Daryl, that if you actually paid attention in class that these could be much better?"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"That isn't to say that they aren't good – they are. Really, Daryl. While I wouldn't say that you have a gift for writing lyrics, I would say that given a little more work and a bit of a push in the right direction, you could really have something here." Her voice had taken on a very kind, if slightly patronizing tone. It pissed him off slightly, but the fact that she was praising his work was so unexpected that he was too stunned to do anything about it. He had expected a telling off, a detention for not paying attention. Now he didn't have a clue what he was in for.

"Did you ever make the connection that lyrics are basically poems?" she asked him. "They are." She continued, not letting him answer. "You know who's one of the masters of poems? Shakespeare. You're a smart boy, Daryl. You may not know it, and you may feel that you aren't allowed to be it, but you really are. I know you're bored. I know school is tough, I know everything is tough." She ducked her head down to catch his gaze again, which had suddenly dropped down to his shoes. "But don't do this to yourself. Invest in your education. Try your best. Pay attention. Keep working on your lyrics, your drawings. Try other forms of poetry. Of writing. Here…" She disappeared behind her desk, pulling out her purse. Digging through it for a moment she finally held out a small plastic square to him. A library card.

"I want you to take this. My husband and I can share his card – I want you to use mine. Do you know where the public library is?" He shook his head. "What about Bruce's garage, you know where that is I'll bet? The public library is just down the street on the opposite side. You can find it. Between that and the school's library you should find enough to keep you interested. Find some books on poetry. There might even be some on music. Learn to play an instrument. I can talk to Mr. Thompson about arranging for you to use some of the instruments after school sometimes. He might even have some spare time to teach you something if you play nice." She smiled as he continued to stare at the card in his hand incredulously. "Keep your grades up, Daryl. If you do that I can promise you that there are some folks around here that will bend over backwards to help you make something of yourself. Think about it. "

Daryl swallowed hard.

An hour later as he wandered into town, still stunned, he tried to process what had transpired. While realistically he knew that not every person on the planet was total shit, and that realistically more people had been at least ambivalent if not kind to him more than they had been cruel, it was still hard to understand just why good old Higgins gave a shit about him. She must have seen dirt bags like him often during her career, and he would risk the beating of a lifetime and bet Merle's new Bonneville Triumph that the majority of them had never amounted to anything. Why would she go out of her way? It couldn't be some misplaced sort of obligation? The school barely paid any attention to its pupils on the best of days, and he'd never seen her really go out of her way for a student before. Was she really that impressed by his work?

He'd always worried about it – the contents of his notebook. If Merle or Pa had ever gotten a hold of it, it would end up in the middle of the burn pile quicker than he could react, unless they were in the mood for entertainment and mocking first. He'd shown the first incarnation of the notebook to Ma once, the year she'd died. She'd been appreciative of his work, and told him to keep it up, but he'd always chalked that up to Ma being Ma, and her desire to turn him into anything other than a mini-Pa or a mini-Merle. That notebook would _never _have come from them, so it was definitely something to be encouraged in her view. After her death, he'd nearly given it up, opting instead to focus on the creation of the small wooden animals they were carving in woodshop class. It wasn't until this year that he'd finally decided there wasn't any harm in either hobby if Pa or Merle didn't find out, and so long as he never showed another living soul. His notebook stayed firmly either in his hands at school or hidden under his bed at home, and the carved animals occupied the small space of his window sill, a place where none of his family ever bothered to look.

In the end, all he could say was that it kept him happy— gave him something to do before he went home, and during class. He'd kept it a secret so far. How much harder could it be to keep library visits a secret as well?

Three months after the acquisition of the library card Daryl had inhaled most of the poetry and writing section, breezing through the "How-to's" and the guides with a speed that would suggest he was starving for knowledge. Electing to stay two hours every day after school rather than risking bringing books home, Daryl made good use of the card, and the information contained in the library. While regular writing, with its long drawn out and detailed ideas, didn't seem like it was for him, he did happen to find a way to make the poetry section useful, if not enjoyable. While he would never quite _enjoy _the works of Shakespeare, he did take Mrs. Higgins' advice to heart to at least _learn_ from it, incorporating the knowledge and the technique— along with that of more abstract poets – into his lyrics. While he'd rather die than admit it, Daryl had been particularly drawn to the non-sense-ical stylings of Lewis Carroll, his favorite being _Jabberwocky_.

His newest find however, had been the music section, where he began to go through the "self teaching" books on guitar. He'd arranged a deal with Mr. Thompson to use a school guitar every other day after school, meanwhile turning down an offer of private lessons. Dixons were mostly self-taught men, and he would not tolerate someone breathing down his neck while he tried to force a tune out of a hunk of wood and wire.

At the rate Daryl was going, he might even enjoy his senior year of high school, though as it was _his _life concerned, there was still plenty of time for something to ruin it. He'd no sooner thought this, a frown on his face as he bent over a musical theory book when he felt a rather large hand on his shoulder.

"What the _hell _do ya think yer doin' baby brotha?"

_Merle._

Daryl stiffened. _Shit. _Closing the book slowly, gingerly, he turned to face his older brother. It had been nearly a month since he'd seen him last.

"Merle." He greeted cautiously, giving the larger man a slight nod. "Been awhile."

"It sure has been, boy. Now I'll ask ya again, what the hell are ya doin'?"

"Readin'." It popped out before he could even think about it. He was in for it now…

Merle's eyes narrowed. Striding in front of the desk that Daryl had claimed as his own, he leaned the bulk of his weight against it, lowering his head so that they were on eye level. "I kin see that." He said evenly. Daryl had to resist the impulse to gulp. _Merle can smell fear, _he told himself. Reaching forward, Merle grabbed the cover of the book, Daryl's grip on it tightening reflexively. Merle pulled. "Let go, boy!"

A loud "shh!" sounded from somewhere off to their right. An old woman, her hair looking for all the world as if it had never left the eighties, glared at them. Daryl let go.

"Guitars eh?" Merle flipped through the pages noisily. "Wha'cha tryin' ta do, little brotha? Woo a woman?" He smiled before chucking the book back on the table with a thump and laughing.

Daryl gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"You even know what ta do with a woman, Daryl?"

Daryl's fist clenched in his lap. He tried not to let it show how much Merle was irritating him. Everything from the way he talked to the way he was chewing his tobacco with his mouth open like a cow made him want to punch him. He'd almost consider it if it wouldn't get him banned from the library for life. Almost.

Merle continued chewing and smiling for a moment, pinning Daryl down with his gaze. It was a game they always played, a dominance war. Daryl always lost.

"I ride back up inta town, and I sit my ass down on a bar stool at the bar, and ya wanna know what Jimmy Barclay comes up and says ta me? Says his little sista been seeing you a lot, here at the library. Says you come here ev'ry day, and ya sit here fer hours, _readin'. _What the fuck, Daryl?"

"A'hm _learnin'. _You gotta problem with that?" Daryl snarled.

"Yeah I got a fuckin' problem with that! Yer learnin' pussy stuff! Readin' and guitar playin' an' all that. That's fine and dandy fer some folks, son, but we're _Dixons. _We ain't got time for pussy shit like that. We gotta eat. We gotta hunt."

"I hunt!"

"Sure ya do, sure ya do. But do ya got enough ta last us tha winter? How's about the next two weeks? Or do ya jus' do it a day or two atta time? Ya gotta get serious son! School's just cos ya hafta go. Gov'ment says so. Put in the bare minimum of time an' effort and be done with it. Don't need ta go learnin' all this extra shit, 'specially if ya ain't tryin' ta impress a woman. Jesus' Daryl!" Merle threw his hands into the air. "Thought I taught you betta then this."

Daryl stood abruptly, grabbing his selection of books, and stormed off to return them to the cart, Merle hot on his heels. "Ya fuckin payin' attention boy?" The shushing sound came again, this time from a young kid hidden in a rather large chair in the corner. Merle's eyes widened and he took a step towards the kid, shouting "Git!" Daryl stepped in front of his path as he made towards the tiny tyke.

"Leave 'im!" he commanded. Merle shook his head.

"What would Pa say if he knew?"

"Pa don't give a shit!"

"Shh!"

Both Dixons turned to the conversation interrupter at once, a man in his mid-forties who quickly scampered in the other direction. Daryl continued. "Pa don't give a shit what I do with my time, so long as I do whatever the hell it is he wants me to. So don't give me that shit."

"That's where yer wrong, baby brotha. Pa cares. He don't want no jackasses like Jimmy Barclay going around askin' people why ya's a pansy ass." Putting his hands on his hips and scuffing his boot on the carpet Merle switched his approach.

"Ya neva cared about this shit before? Why now?" he asked.

Daryl's ears burned as he mumbled something about Mrs. Higgins finding out about his art and song lyrics. The floor didn't care all that much.

Merle cupped his hand around his ear. "Come again?" He asked, tauntingly.

Daryl was about to reply when he spotted a woman barreling down the hallway at them, hellfire and sulfur in her eyes. "Honestly! She whisper-shouted. "Were you two boys raised in a barn? Silence in the library! No talking! No shouting! Now out, both of you!"

Throwing both Merle and the librarian a nasty look, Daryl stomped off. He'd never hear the end of this. That was the end of that. So much for a good senior year.


End file.
